


Sonnet 30

by thisismsmercy



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Bittersweet, Gratuitous Ovid, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismsmercy/pseuds/thisismsmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post play- everything's cyclical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonnet 30

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foundwanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundwanders/gifts).



_“The whole cyclical shape of my play insures that they come back from the dead, because they have to, as it were, enter a new Hamlet. There's probably a new one every week, somewhere. There's something which isn't very definitive about their deaths.”- Tom Stoppard_

Guildenstern opens his eyes.  
He doesn’t know much about the present situation, but he knows that wherever they are, it’s dark for day. It’s very dark indeed.  
There are no stars above him. The ground is cold and hard beneath him and his back rests crookedly on stones. His hands are clasped together and pressed so hard against his chest that he can actually feel the weight of them through the layers of leather and linen. His legs are closed neatly, toes up. The rope lies coiled like a snake under his head.  
Where’s Rosencrantz? Where is he, for that matter?  
He is under the gallows, he realises, which, although are spacious and protect him somewhat from the cold, close him in as though he is in a coffin. A closed-in gallows, he wonders. He’d never heard of anything like that before. People usually want to see the body dangling down- that was part of the fun.  
What was one supposed to do when one had been hanged?  
They must be presumed dead, after all, or they would be dead- hanged again, or beheaded, or burnt, or drawn and quartered... Certainly their executioner hadn’t had one go, found his attempt unsuccessful, and then given the whole thing up as a bad job.  
They must be presumed dead, but then why had they been left under the gallows to rot? Why not six feet under an unmarked plot, in the recesses of some foreign churchyard? Well, probably not actually in the churchyard- nothing so grand for them, having been put to death- but near a church, at least.  
Death, Guildenstern had consoled himself as he stood there with the rope around his neck, would at least answer a few questions- either that or render them unimportant, depending- but it seems only to have posed new ones.  
Unlacing his hands, he presses one to the ground beside him and finds that there is no grass to speak of- he upsets only dirt and rocks as he carefully braces himself, and then moves stiffly into a sitting position.  
His eyes bulge in the darkness, and then squint, but he can see nothing.  
Rosencrantz is sprawled out beside him, breathing heavily. He can’t see the other man, but just because something can’t be seen doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. He lifts a hand to probe the darkness so as to shake the man awake, but, paralysed by indecision, Guildenstern hesitates.  
He really isn’t sure what is supposed to happen next, which in itself is nothing new, but in all previous instances he did at least knew what it was he should be doing. What does one do when one is supposed to be dead? He again considers waking Rosencrantz, but decides that the man wouldn’t be much help in the way of furnishing him with a set of answers, and would be far happier asleep anyway.  
He exhales heavily, unhappily.  
“That’s you isn’t it? Guildenstern?”  
“Oh! Yes,” he replies, alarmed to hear a voice, despite it being a familiar one, and even more taken aback at being addressed correctly for once. “Yes, Rosencrantz.”  
“I got it right?”  
“Yes.” He wouldn’t have minded being addressed incorrectly, just this once, he realises. Hearing his friend address him as ‘Rosencrantz’, or ‘Ophelia’, or even ‘Mother’ would have been a relief. “You got it right.”  
They fall silent, and then Guildenstern begins to hear sounds- forest sounds, such as leaves moving about and branches hitting one another, wind. He doesn’t remember hearing such sounds when he first woke up, but he quickly puts this observation to the back of his mind.  
“Is this it then?” asks Rosencrantz.  
“What?”  
“Death. We were hanged. Is this it then? For the rest of eternity?” He pauses, considering alternatives. “It’s not too bad, actually- I expected much worse.”  
“We’re not dead. We are very obviously not dead.”  
“How would you know?”  
How does one begin to justify something that one simply feels, with certainty, is fact?  
“Well, you’re breathing, aren’t you?”  
“Am I?  
“The-” he flounders, “It’s cold- there’s a breeze- the ground beneath you- there are rocks-” Guildenstern picks one up with thumb and finger, squeezing it so that the sharp edges dig into his flesh, to make sure. He throws it at where he imagines Rosencrantz to be and hears a little grunt of indignation. “You felt that, didn’t you?”  
“Well, this might be what it feels like to be dead. You wouldn’t know that it feels any different to being alive- you’ve never been dead before. Or, if this is what it feels like to be dead then we might always have been dead, all along. Being alive might feel entirely different to what we feel now, but we wouldn’t know, would we, if we had forgotten what being alive feels like. That seems reasonable, with our memories being what they are, and what they are is unreliable at best, so we might never have been alive at all-”  
“Rosencrantz-”  
“-but we are definitely dead because they hanged us, we fell through the ground, and I heard the snapping, and then everything went black.”  
“Death is the ultimate negative. The fact that we aren’t not here proves that we didn’t die.”  
“I don’t want to be dead. What’s left for us if we’re dead?”  
They don’t sit in silence because the wind outside hisses and wails as it blows through the cracks in the wooden boards around them, but neither speaks for what feels like a long time.  
Beside him, Rosencrantz moves around. Leather groans, rope hits the hard ground with a quiet thud, and the two men sit opposite each other in the pitch dark.  
“What do you think happened?” Rosencrantz asks, wistfully. “To everybody else.” the man clarifies, and Guildenstern instantly feels a swell of disbelief, anger.  
“What happened to everybody else?” He feels around beside him for his noose and begins to pick at it, squeezing it with what he is sure are tired and calloused hands. “We do exactly what it is that has been asked of us, dropping everything at a moment’s notice-”  
“Were we busy?”  
“We might have been! Dropping everything to travel up to Elsinore so that we can entertain the prince- who is spoiled and sick in the head- and so that we can find out why he’s sick in the head when the cause of his ‘lunacy’ is perfectly obvious! Because of this fool’s errand events are set into motion that eventually lead to our execution- which, I needn’t point out, wasn’t even performed correctly- ” He must be doing some sort of damage to himself, tearing at the rope so anxiously, his fingers must be bleeding by now- “We weren’t even deemed important enough- we weren’t even hanged right!” he barks, voice cracking. He takes a moment to still himself somewhat before continuing. “And you’re worried about everybody else. Who, might I ask? The man who signed our death warrant?”  
The wind screams.  
“He was upset. His father died. And then his mother married his uncle,” says Rosencrantz, the tone of his voice maddeningly indifferent. The problem with this man, Guildenstern tells himself, is that he either thinks too much or refuses to think at all. And what's worse, nothing can be done to help it either way.  
He lets the noose go, defeated, and it falls to the ground without fuss.  
“Aren’t you angry? Don’t you feel... cheated? Anything?”  
“I’m glad we’re not dead,” says Rosencrantz quietly. “I- well,” he breathes, “I thought we were done for.”  
Quite suddenly Rosencrantz extends a hand and grabs him, fingers closing around his shoulder, as if making sure of where he is. In a second the man is leaning forward onto his knees and then clinging to him in a crushing embrace, one arm up by his head, the other curling around his waist. The fast breathing against his neck makes Guildenstern shiver, and the moment he begins to return the gesture, Rosencrantz pulls away.  
There’s a hiss and a sputtering flicker, and then suddenly there’s Rosencrantz kneeling opposite him, lit match held halfway between them both. The sulphurous yellow light throws shadows across the man, making him seem drawn, tense, and a little older- but it does Guildenstern’s heart good to see his friend again, regardless. Rosencrantz grins; his face is split by it, his eyes are dazzling half-moons. Guildenstern has to smile back.  
“Well,” the brunette begins again, “We’re lucky, that’s what I mean - who knows what might have happened to all those poor souls back home in Denmark.” A second or two is spent as they remind themselves that nothing has happened to anybody they know in Denmark- the cause of their problems having been swiftly removed. “Anyway, it doesn’t do to think things like that.” With this, the flame reaches Rosencrantz’ gloved fingers, and he drops it to the floor. Another is lit, with a flourish. “We’ve got to be proactive. Perhaps we’ve a loose end to tie up.”  
He’s right, Guildenstern realises- it doesn’t matter how disheartened he feels because they can’t sit under the gallows all night waiting for their cue. It’s unclear what’s left for them, but whatever it is, it won’t be found where they are at present. And anyway, Guildenstern feels sorely tempted to simply leave with Rosencrantz, commandeer the boat they sailed in on, and find somewhere far away from both England and Denmark.  
“Alright,” he says, getting to his feet. “To start with, let’s get out of here.”  
This is easier said then done because he isn’t sure where the door is. He isn’t even sure where the nearest wall is. He feels around with a hand stretched out in front of him, like a blind man.  
“Can we do that?”  
“Are you suggesting we stay here?”  
“Won’t they try to hang us again if they see us?”  
Guildenstern almost says ‘no’. “Who are you referring to?”  
“Well,” says Rosencrantz brightly, “who was present earlier?”  
Guildenstern smiles. It can’t be seen in the dark, but he turns away anyway. “Are you going to help me out of here or not?”

****

It’s daytime, but barely- it being light but not pleasant at all- certainly not warm, the sun trapped securely behind a blanket of cloud. They traipse along aimlessly, weaving in and out of the bare trees, Rosencrantz kicking up damp leaves, because they’ve been walking for what feels like a very long time already.  
“Well, she seemed nice enough.”  
“She had no backbone whatsoever,” Guildenstern insists. ”Something beginning with ’P’,” he adds.  
“Polecat?”  
“No. And, even if recent events hadn’t played out as they did... with his father, and his uncle- all that business... he would have been much better off without her.”  
They walk in step with one another through the forest, following what might almost be a trail- not a path by any means, but the suggestion of one in the way the leaves on the ground might have been compacted, and the absence of trees in their way– lovelines perhaps.  
It was anybody’s guess as to how long they've been picking their way through the forest but in all that time neither has seen or heard any sign of a town, and the longer they walk the more the forest seems to be a lonely and secret place. The dark spaces between the trees hold a sense of intrigue that appeals to Guildenstern. He sucks in the brisk air and wonders how best to bait his sparring partner into another match.  
“What do you mean? She seemed... well, she was... pretty enough. Pine marten?” Rosencrantz ventures, keeping his eyes trained keenly on what’s around him.  
“Pretty enough? Is that how you’d choose a wife?”  
“I wouldn’t... well, I don’t know. I’ve never really given them much thought.” A rotted tree trunk to his right seems familiar, so he slows to investigate, but finds that it is new to him. Carefully, he reaches out and breaks off a twig, bends it, sees the way it’s slimy with condensation from the air and is quietly glad he’s wearing gloves. “Women, I mean,” he calls, and seeing Guildenstern waiting for him up ahead, trots over to him, and the pair are walking side by side again.  
“So what do you know of women? Nothing?”  
“Certainly not that much,” he says, abashed, but carries on brightly, “I know you’re no better off, though. Pine marten?”  
“No. Well, look, my point-you’d have thought with such a strong figure for a mother he’d have known how to pick a woman. Look at the Queen. A woman who leaves nothing to fate. Her husband, the King, dies suddenly. There’s an heir, but he’s unreliable, a little young, perhaps. She does what she has to do in order to prevent civil unrest.”  
“The title of King was rightfully Hamlet’s. Peony?”  
“No. How would Hamlet have handled the situation in Norway? Stricken with grief over the death of his father, saddled with the most responsibility a man can be saddled with and then given a war to deal with?”  
“But when isn’t there a war to deal with?”  
Beside the point, but Guildenstern doesn’t say so.  
“If she hadn’t re-married, what would have happened to her authority? A once well-respected woman- not young, mind you- reduced to... well, who knows. She’s a woman. Were you in her position, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”  
“But a loving wife, surely, would need more than just two months to grieve-”  
“Who said anything about love? This was a royal marriage. Give me an example of a royal marriage borne out of love. Any marriage. ”  
“Ah- hm.”  
Guildenstern brings his hands up and clasps them behind his head, thinking. Rosencrantz snaps the twig he’s holding and slowly drops the pieces, which he stops being able to see long before they touch the ground. “Pansies?”  
“No. I’ve no doubt that she was a virtuous wife, but I’d be greatly surprised if either marriage was borne of love rather than necessity. What I’m saying is that Hamlet is stricken by self-doubt and indecision too frequently for Ophelia to be any good for him- her being as clueless as he is- because a good match isn’t about similarities, it’s about differences,” Guildenstern enthuses. The way he raises his voice without realising it has Rosencrantz staring at him. “Two flawed individuals coming together to create a functioning whole- that’s a marriage!”  
His voice rings out through the forest with surprising clarity. Unseen things move around out there, startled into action.  
It seems to be an opinion that is relevant to more than just Hamlet and Ophelia, but Rosencrantz doesn’t say so. It looks as though he doesn’t need to, with Guildenstern looking as embarrassed as he does. His lips are a thin, white line- as though he’s closed them as tightly as possible so that he’ll never speak more than he means to ever again. Rosencrantz almost laughs at him, but instead chooses to do the more gentlemanly thing.  
“Poppy? I bet it’s poppies!” He laughs delightedly. “How fitting, given the association.”  
“I have no idea what you mean,” says Guildenstern, genuinely confused. Affronted, he looks back at the other, whose smile falters.  
“You know, poppies and death. Flanders fields.”  
“’Flanders Fields’? What’s-? Besides, can you see any flowers?”  
Rosencrantz focuses his attention on flowers, and finds that there are none. There is nothing bright or cheerful; there are no colours to be found besides brown, and orange, the black of shadows and the grey of the sky. The ground beneath them is all just leaves, and dirt- not even grass or bushes, just the occasional rotten tree and- but there- that’s different, at least-  
“A pinecone?”  
“Correct, your turn,” says Guildenstern, as they walk past the tree it fell from. It seems alien- short, dark, more wide and still, and green, as pine trees keep their needles all year round.  
“...You know, I haven’t seen any other pinecones today. This pine tree is the first we’ve...”  
Rosencrantz comes to a slow stop, looks around with wary confusion.  
“This can’t be right.”  
“We must be walking in circles.”  
“We’re not,” says Rosencrantz, resting his hands on his hips. “Definitely not. I’ve been keeping a look out and I don’t remember any of this.” He points. “That tree. That’s new.”  
“I thought so too.”  
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”  
The two men stand close, and stare at nothing for a while. The skeletons of weeds, leaves, finger-like twigs and the bodies of trees gradually become images; the image becomes movement and then, the longer they stare, even that becomes just a colour.  
Guildenstern blinks, shakes reality back into focus. “We’ve been walking all day. We should have found something- just a road, even.”  
“We’ve not been walking around in circles, either. I’ve been paying attention,” Rosencrantz adds. “We should have known. Usually one can see the gallows from the town, so if one can’t see the town from the gallows...”  
“But that’s nonsense!” Guildenstern snaps. “There must be a town! Whoever heard of a gallows on its own, hidden in a forest?” Concerned, Rosencrantz makes to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs the gesture off exaggeratedly. “And where’s the church! Where were we to be buried?”  
“Did you see the Prince board the ship? The pirates, I mean. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had it all planned out. He was smiling,” says Rosencrantz, and the birds sing, at least, which covers up the awkward silence. Neither is sure what to say. Rosencrantz thinks his feet might be getting cold. He treads around on the spot. “What should we do?” he murmurs.  
“I don’t know! I’ve no idea what we’re supposed to be doing!”  
Guildenstern brings a hand up to his face, closes his eyes. His shoulders are hunched and it looks as though he’s curling in on himself, as though if he makes himself smaller, life might miss when it next tries to throw another cruel blow his way. He looks like unhappiness personified. Rosencrantz thinks that it’s not at all like him, but people can’t be strong all the time, so he rubs the other man’s shoulder to let him know that it’s alright.  
“Be happy- if you’re not even happy what’s so good about surviving? Perhaps we have to go back to Denmark. Keep on trying to help the king.”  
“I will not knowingly burden myself with a Sisyphean task.”  
“What else is there to do? We’re running out of options, and we didn’t have many to begin with.”  
“We have no way of knowing which direction to go in.”  
“Then what should we do?”  
“I suppose we’d better just walk. We’ll have to hit civilisation eventually.”

****

“I don’t remember women.”  
“You don’t... remember women?”  
“I remember women, obviously- Ophelia... my mother... ah, the Queen- her Royal Highness- but I don’t remember ever knowing any women.”  
“Ah.”  
“Biblically.”  
“Yes, I’d-”  
“I don’t remember sleeping with any women.”  
“Yes, well-”  
“In fact, the closest I can recall ever getting to that sort of encounter was before, when we were on our way to Elsinore and those actors... uhm. Why such animosity towards them, anyway?”  
“He offered that boy up as collateral.”  
“You suggested it,” says Rosencrantz, frostily.  
“Yes, but I didn’t take him as collateral, did I?” Guildenstern placates.  
“That isn’t the point.”  
They’re still walking. Their steps have become more aimless than determined now, not making much progress because it’s beginning to dawn on them that there isn’t going to be a whole lot of progress to be made. The talking in circles that usually infuriates Guildenstern is now something he's thankful for, as it’s doing quite a good job of keeping his mind off things that he doesn’t want to think about- such as the fact that he doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking for, they don’t know where they’re walking to, they’ve somehow missed the coast altogether and they’ve yet to stumble across civilisation in any way, shape or form. For what feels like hours they’ve been walking without coming across a town, or a house, a road, fields, or even the backside of the damn forest.  
And the forest has lost all appeal to Guildenstern. It has become disquieting- very familiar, somehow, this forest in England- with sounds that he attributes to creatures that he can never see, the same bare trees over and over again, every sign of early winter, and yet, there are still clusters of berries clinging to bare branches...  
He’s more glad than ever before that he isn’t alone, that’s all- but Rosencrantz isn’t looking at him, which most likely means that he is upset. Guildenstern thinks quickly to cobble together an answer for him.  
“It rubs me the wrong way... the lying, the masquerading as one thing but being another. Why pose as actors? They didn’t even know any plays.”  
“It’s the prostitution? Not everyone is as well off as we are you know- times are hard, and they have to make a living. It’s those child actors, they-”  
“The problem isn’t the prostitution. We all pay for sex, one way or another. At least whores are honest about the price.”  
“The devaluation of art, then?”  
“Would you really call that art?” Guildenstern sees the other open his mouth, threatening to form an opinion, and holds up a finger to put a stop to it. “No, let’s not get into this now.”  
“What then? That a mere travelling actor would dare to speak to you with familiarity? Some sly dig at your masculinity that I must have missed? His observations on your preferred choice of sexual partner?”  
It isn’t that Guildenstern chooses not to dignify the remark with a response, rather that he becomes distracted by the brambles at his feet. The loops of thorny stems are completely devoid of leaves, and yet are heavy with fruit. There are no leaves on anything, save the ground; the naked trees are bleeding upwards, like cracks in the sky, which means that it is winter- and yet, almost everywhere he looks, fruit. Red, purple and blue- berries clustered together, like bruises, kissing the ground. There should be no fruit in winter. There really shouldn’t be.  
There is a February fog hanging in the air. What month is it? What year? What next- flowers?  
It’s horribly frustrating- one more frustration on top of another, for Guildenstern.  
“What do you think happened to them? Guil-”  
“I couldn’t care less if I tried. Listen, look at-”  
“Not even for Alfred?”  
“I’d rather not get into it.”  
“They knew what we wanted.”  
“I’m sorry?”  
“They knew what we wanted or they wouldn’t have offered.”  
“I’d rather not get into it.”  
“Oh, I see.” For a few blissful moments it seems as though Rosencrantz has decided to leave it at that, until “It’s because you’re not sure, isn’t it? You don’t like to be unsure of things.” This, almost hitting the mark, pains Guildenstern a little. The leaves crunch under his feet a shade more loudly. “What’s the worst that could come of talking about it? Words being all we have to go on, after all?”  
“Somebody might hear.”  
“There’s not a soul about for miles! We’ve been walking all day without seeing even the hint of another human being, so-” Rosencrantz stops in his tracks, grabbing Guildenstern by the sleeve and whirling him around, bringing them face to face, tired of considering.  
Guildenstern breathes quickly and heavily like a spooked horse. Rosencrantz looks at him steadily and holds him in place by the shoulders. Then something between them warms the air up, and the forest stops feeling so cold. They square each other up, and, slowly, Rosencrantz loosens his grip; he speaks again, carefully, “There’s nothing unusual in a... friendship, between men.”  
Guildenstern can’t help but watch his mouth move. Rosencrantz’ mouth has lips that somehow, miraculously, still look soft despite the blistering cold that comes and goes.  
There’s a soft tug at his doublet; looking down at it, he sees Rosencrantz’ hands pulling at the lacing. He must have gotten rid of his gloves quite some time before, because his blunt fingers had dirt under the nails.  
“Given half a chance-” Guildenstern clears his throat, tries to find his voice, “-this would be nothing like a friendship between men.”  
The hands are gripping his shoulders tightly again, though this time, involuntarily.  
It is Rosencrantz’ turn to act like a trapped animal; his eyes are wide as he feels distance between them slowly vanishing (his partner’s bright, scrutinising eyes, his questioning mouth, the smell of him). Being so close to the other gives him a peep of something that could make him happy, but does not give him guarantee that this happiness will be granted. It frightens him. All Rosencrantz has ever wanted is a moment’s happiness. This new factor- without ever knowing it he would have been happily oblivious, but to be denied it now will make him forever just short of content for as long as he remembers.  
It’s like standing over a well, waiting to hear the coin one has thrown in finally hit the water.  
Guildenstern finally lifts his head, and their lips meet chastely. It’s just a peck, a quick brushing together and then they separate, until Rosencrantz’ hands are on his waist, pulling them together again and they’re kissing in earnest-deeply, wetly, like lovers.  
There’s a familiarity in the embrace that betrays the fact that they may never have done this before. Guildenstern knows to pull back enough to kiss the corner of the other’s mouth just as Rosencrantz knows that he should draw the other’s lip between his teeth. Bare fingers are tangled in hair, knees are parted by knees. All space between them disappears as they fit together like a lock and key; for a moment it’s hard to believe tragedy has ever existed, for all the romance.  
They part, falteringly, breathlessly.  
“I think we should stop.”  
“What?”  
“I’m tired of walking. We should stop for a while.”  
“Oh,” sighs Guildenstern. “Yes.”  
He isn’t sure where to put himself after such a display of affection. What are they supposed to do now, he wonders (though he finds he does, in fact, have some idea), as he tries to remember how to walk.  
His eyes fall to the brambles at his feet again, and, briefly, he wants to bend over and eat them by the handful.

****

“Well, let me put it this way-” he begins, but the leaves above him shake in a way that is quite distracting. What if something were to be shaken out of the tree and on to him? He certainly isn’t about to get up and move because he is tired, and the sun- hanging as low as it is in the sky- would get in his eyes without the shade of the tree. The fog has dissipated, unveiling a pale, lemon yellow light. Weak though it might be, it makes everything look as though it is ill, and Guildenstern doesn’t want to think about it- which he will do if it shines in his eyes. Besides, he thinks, it was his spot first.  
He looks to the boots tamping down the dirt beside him. “Are you listening to me?”  
“Yes.”  
Again the leaves rustle. A branch groans.  
“What are you doing?”  
“We found an apple tree, and I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I’m picking an apple. Are you hungry?”  
The symbolism of it seems almost painfully obvious. “Are you doing that on purpose?” Guildenstern asks.  
“What?”  
And what’s more, he’s sure that it isn’t the season for apples. Wasn’t it autumn? No- winter?  
“Nothing. Listen, look at it this way- the Greeks did it, and the Romans.”  
Beside him, the sound of Rosencrantz’s fidgeting comes to a slow stop as he gives the idea some thought.  
Of course, they’d been taught about the Greeks and the Romans at some point- that could be assumed seeing as the pair of them had some knowledge of the important things that an educated man should know. If he thought about it hard enough Guildenstern is sure he’d remember the finer points of his education at Wittenberg, but education isn’t the point, so he puts that thought to one side for the time being. He looks instead to Rosencrantz, who still looms over him, looking at the tree, though clearly not thinking of apples any more.  
“Yes, but...” he ventures, taking a step back and looking to Guildenstern, “they were... well, the world wasn’t Christian, as it is now, was it?”  
“Bugger it,” says Guildenstern.  
Rosencrantz’ laughter is rich and musical.  
Having seemingly given up on apples, Rosencrantz turns and drops himself to the ground beside Guildenstern, resting his back against the tree. The two sit with their shoulders pressed together. Their hands might have touched if Guildenstern’s arms weren’t resignedly folded across his chest. He takes a breath.  
“The greatest thinkers that ever lived came from a society that didn’t merely allow it, but encouraged it.” Here, he has to pause. “Personally, I feel that if such behaviour is wrong, society should, on general principal, ignore the teachings of Tully and Socrates entirely, in order to set an example. And, likewise, set aside the stories of Hercules, Achilles, Apollo and Alexander and never speak of them again. If it is so wrong.”  
“I remember,” says Rosencrantz, pointing with one finger to punctuate. “Mathematics, democracy, astronomy and philosophy went hand in hand with...”  
It's all just one more thing that's useless thinking about, of course, but they have to bring the discussion to a conclusion because they will both need to rest soon, and they will have to decide on what is a suitable distance from one another to sleep. Plumes of their breath hang in the air in front of them. It is already very cold again, and it will stay that way until morning.  
It’s getting dark, and there is nobody around for miles in the forest anyway, so Guildenstern decides to do what feels right; unfolding his arms so that he’s free to place a hand on his friend’s leg.  
“Do you even believe God exists? Sometimes I find myself wondering if there really is a heaven, or a hell. If the bible is wrong about that then I don’t see why I should carry on believing there is a God,” says Guildenstern. “Well, not without reasonable proof. That would be foolish.”  
“That’s hardly the point of God though, is it? Having proof?” says Rosencrantz, sliding his hand across the ground an inch or so, so that each has a hand on the other. Despite the temperature, Guildenstern doesn’t feel any warmth from it, only a gentle pressure. “Who’s going to be the boy then?”  
“Come again?”  
“The boy- ah, that is, the mentee. As in ancient Greece- which one of us is the mentor and which is the boy?”  
“Ah-”  
“Which of us is Achilles, and which is Patroclus?”  
“Well I feel as though we’re both rather evenly matched.”  
“We could-"  
"No."  
"-Flip for it.”  
“No.”

****

They decide, in the end (with much deliberation but without much decision at all) to sleep together. It’s dark and very cold, and though there are only two of them, there is still safety in numbers. That’s how Guildenstern justifies it, at any rate. Under their riding coats he lies on his back and looks at the stars.  
Rosencrantz lies on his side and looks at Guildenstern. Hamlet, Polonius, Ophelia, the King, the Queen- they could go hang for all he cares. He has Guildenstern, and the two of them are a long way away from all of those problems. Things haven’t worked out badly at all, in Rosencrantz’ opinion.  
He thinks his friend- to embrace him, call him love, and steal a kiss upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb, as a lusty God.  
He runs a hand across the man’s chest- unfastening, opening and sliding off clothing on the way. Cold, Guildenstern leans in towards him, and he smoothes a palm over the man’s chest apologetically. He tears his eyes away from the heavens, rolling them over to Rosencrantz.  
“Have I not yet given you an adequate display of my wit?” asks Guildenstern with an eyebrow cocked, lifting his hips as Rosencrantz’ hand travels further south.  
“Not by any means.” The man beneath him struggles to keep his eyes open as Rosencrantz wraps a hand around his shaft. He sets a steady pace as he smirks and continues, “Granted, what you’ve displayed is by no means paltry, but I’m certain there’s more wit in you than that. Or, rather, there will be.”  
Guildenstern covers his mouth to smother the soft sounds he’s making, but Rosencrantz removes the hand, replacing it with a kiss. He savours the feeling of a tongue rolling against his own before he pulls away to deal with his codpiece.  
“Are we talking about your will or my wit?”  
“I’m sure we can get to the heart of the matter.”  
Soon, Rosencrantz discovers that he might be something of a romantic. Despite the fact that he has proof in the palm of his hand that Guildenstern is at least as much of a man as himself, he feels a tender, sickly swell of adoration- as though his desire has made the other man suddenly more beautiful than he is handsome. He loves to hear him speak, yet well he knows that music has a far more pleasing sound, when he walks, he treads on the ground...  
He makes saccharine observations and almost embarrassing mental notes on Guildenstern’s dark, lidded eyes and honey lashes. It’s noted the way the moonlight turns his skin silver and his hair prussian blue. The cupid’s bow of his lips is cobalt violet as his mouth opens into a low, quiet moan.  
Observations and sensations occur to him out of time and without a chronological order, as if they’re a fevered daydream.  
Leaves prick at the hand he pushes into the ground to hold himself up. Guildenstern pulls at him with hot fingers. Linen burns as it moves rhythmically against his chest, given room to move now that he’s halfway undressed.  
He’s on his knees, back arched and head bowed to rest against the swell of a hipbone. He wets his fingers, parting the tight swell of the man’s buttocks. He wets his lips, concentrating on stilling the rise of anticipation within him. The sound of him clearing his throat can only just be heard over the panting and the soft crackle of the leaves.  
“Ah- do you have a-?”  
“Have a what?”  
“...I don’t know, actually. Never mind.”  
They fall together comfortably, almost easily.

****

“Look,” he says cheerfully, shaking the other awake, “Horses.”  
Rosencrantz fixes his clothes as he pulls himself upright. There are two horses- one is black, the other chestnut- fully loaded with who-knows-what underneath a heavy fleece. They stand side by side and nose around in the leaves on the ground. It’s nice to see other living things- he was beginning to think that he and Guildenstern were the only two creatures left in the world.  
He thinks at first that there must be people close by, but as he turns and scours the forest, and then looks back at the horses and sees that the reins aren’t secured to any trees but are left trailing at the ground, it dawns on him that they’ve run away from somebody.  
Beside him Guildenstern is still stretched out fluidly, arms above his head, back pressed into the leaves. The cold has brought a blush to his face; the way his lips are parted just slightly reminds him of the previous night, but there are more pressing things to think about.  
He should have said they were unicorns. That would have piqued his interest.  
“Rosen- Guildenstern, look.”  
“No.”  
“Look.”  
“Why?”  
“Horses.”  
“Oh, alright,” he sighs, fumbling around under the riding coats. He manages a sitting position, looks to where Rosencrantz is pointing, and runs a hand through his hair. “Alright.”  
“Good morning!”  
“Good morning. Whose horses are they?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Is there anybody here?”  
“No.”  
“Alright.”  
Rosencrantz watches him get to his feet, quickly finish re-dressing and then pick up his coat, wrapping it around himself. He saunters over to the horses, cautiously pats the chestnut one on the flank, gives the area a cursory once over and hops on, swinging a leg over and landing lightly in the saddle. The horse doesn’t seem to mind at all.  
“What are you doing?”  
“We are returning these horses to their owners. Come on.”  
“Oh! Yes, I see,” says Rosencrantz with a conspiratorial wink. He picks himself up and gathers himself together. He combs a copper leaf from his hair as he ambles over to the horses. It’s pretty, so he finds a pocket for it.  
Guildenstern, atop his horse, smiles a guilty smile.  
“I’m sure we’ll come across them eventually,” he says, shrugging.  
“And when we do, we’ll give them back.”  
“And in the meantime we’ll ride them.”  
“It would be silly not to.”  
Rosencrantz regards the black horse, and it looks back at him with its big, dark eyes, unconcerned. It’s really rather a fine animal- somebody is probably missing it, though there’s nothing either of them can really do about that. He strokes its neck absently, and then bends down to gather the reins and set them right. He notes that the sky is still lacking in personality- still just thick white cloud as far as he can see.  
“Check the pack, would you?”  
He walks around to do so, and then unfixes the heavy sheepskin and gathers it back to reveal nothing much.  
“It’s food, mostly. And these sheepskins- bad luck we didn’t happen upon them last night.”  
“Well, we have them for tonight.”  
“We do.”  
He’s about to recover the load when, under something that looks as though it may be bread, he catches sight of a wide leather brim. With a flourish he uncovers first one hat, then another- one a rich, deep brown, and the other black.  
“How lucky. They match our outfits.”  
“What?”  
“Hats,” he says, throwing Guildenstern the black one.  
They fit surprisingly well, the pair discover, taking into consideration the fact that the hats don’t actually belong to them.  
“Very nice,” says Guildenstern, nodding to him.  
“Thank you,” Rosencrantz replies, and with that they nudge the horses forwards.

****

The sounds the horses make as they plod along are quite comforting- so much so that Rosencrantz isn’t sure what he’d do without them, if they had to be given back. They’re getting along splendidly- the men and the horses. It's as if the four of them have always been travelling together. The previously still air is now filled with rhythmic hoofing at the ground and loud, huffing breaths, as well as the men’s musings. Rosencrantz feel no less contemplative for it, but certainly more cheerful.  
“You have some idea though? At the very least, a rough outline you can pluck from the air- a feeling? A guess?” he probes, focusing his attention on Guildenstern. “Perhaps the trick is not to over think it. Speak without considering what it is you are trying to say, and perhaps the truth- hidden away, as I am sure it is, somewhere in the recesses of our minds- will manifest itself.”  
“I really must protest- you speak without thinking often enough as it is.”  
“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? This is only filler, after all.”  
“Why would you say a thing like that?”  
Rosencrantz can barely remember what he’s just said- as to why he said it he has no idea. He swallows thickly.  
“I don’t know.”  
Neither speaks for a while, as Rosencrantz retreats into his own mind and Guildenstern wonders what the other man meant.  
They’ve yet to run into any people so far, but at least they’re having a fine time on the horses.  
With somewhat of an unfocused gaze, Rosencrantz clears his throat to speak.  
“Before all this, I wrote my own plays,” he says. “I was not only a writer, but a celebrated writer- popular, witty, loved by all-” here, he adds “some things never change, do they?” and the other man rolls his eyes. “-successful, satisfied, and often quite controversial. My lover and I spent the days writing together and sleeping past noon, until, one day, in a jealous rage, he-”  
“He?”  
“-they beat my skull in with a hammer and then proceeded to commit suicide. Gruesome,” says Rosencrantz, boldly, “and such a shame, with me being so young. My body was still warm when we were found apparently, which would suggest that I died last.” He leans back in his saddle, mulling it over, and Guildenstern looks across at him with raised eyebrows.  
“But you didn’t, because you’re not dead.”  
“Er, yes. Your turn.”  
“I’m thinking.”  
“No, don’t think about it too much, just...”  
The conversation comes to a standstill as Guildenstern tries to think without thinking too much. He bites a thumbnail, considering.  
“I worked for the law, undercover- I was so convincing a liar that I fooled a gang of thieves into believing that I was one of them. My job was to lead them into prison, to see that their luck caught up with them, but one of the con men,” he says, with a smile, “was very charming. He proved so much of a distraction that I blew my cover and was killed. Not killed. I’m as alive as you are, after all.”  
“Thieves! That’s good. I’ve been criminals too. Once, I was Dracula.”  
“Dracula?”  
“Count Dracula.”  
“Who is ‘Count Dracula’?”  
“A vampire.”  
“And what is a vampire?”  
“I forget.”  
Guildenstern makes a noise that is somehow not quite a laugh or a sigh. He lifts up a hand, and it ends up re-arranging his hat.  
“Alright. Once I was on a boat.”  
“Oh yes, I think I remember that. Was I there?”  
“Did it sound as though I’d finished?”  
“Are we playing..?”  
“No. Once I was on a boat,” he says, before the other can interrupt with the score. “I was born onboard a boat and I never left it. My whole life was spent on the sea, on one boat, and I never had to worry about which way to go or whether to go at all. Instead of worrying, I made music. I had a friend. I did try to get off, once, but it was impossible. I never left, and then one day I...”  
“You what?”  
“Oh, I don’t know. This is pointless.”

****

Guildenstern: “You know, I can’t remember when we met.”  
Rosencrantz: “We were at university together, with Hamlet.”  
“Yes, but did we meet there?”  
“Yes...No? Does it matter? We’re together now.”  
“Of course it matters!”  
“I don’t even remember why we’re travelling any more, but I’m not worried about it.”  
“You don’t-? We’re travelling because we were hanged, and- no. We can’t have been hanged, or we wouldn’t be here now.”  
“Exactly. I’m not worried though. Perhaps I’m mad- I don’t even think I remember as far back as this morning.”  
“We woke up together, in the forest, and then-”  
“Don’t we always? Perhaps that’s the problem- everything is so similar, it’s almost as if we’re living one long day. Or we’re mad.”  
“I’m not mad.”  
“Perhaps you are mad- you know, people say that crazy people don’t know that they’re crazy. So, by that logic you’re mad and Hamlet isn’t.”  
“What’s the matter with Hamlet?”  
“I don’t know. Who said there was?”  
“You.”  
“When?”  
“Now. What’s the matter with Hamlet?”  
“The king died, didn’t he? How long ago? Two months now, I think.”  
“That’ll be it then. Not difficult, is it?”  
“And I heard that his mother married his uncle.”  
“Well, there you have it. All that fuss for nothing.”  
“What fuss?”

****

“I think I could be a writer. You could help. We could write together. We could write our own plays.”  
“Our present situation has me rather confused, but I know with nothing less than certainty that this particular venture would end in tears.”  
“Yours or mine?”  
“Yours.”  
“No. Come on. You could do the titles.”  
“I’d have to kill you,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’d murder you.” It seems as though this is a joke, but it doesn’t feel funny, and neither laughs. “Ah. Look,” says the blonde, by way of apology. “‘Canis Major’.”  
“Oh? Yes? Isn’t it still daylight?” One points to it and the other finds it, pointing too. “What’s that then, in layman’s terms?”  
“’Sirius’.”  
“Oh! Of course,” he laughs. “Well, obviously I knew that.”  
“Sisyphus,” says the blonde.  
The word is in step with the rhythm that the horse treads into the dirt.  
“Sisyphus,” says the other, to himself. “Remind me again..?”  
“Plato and Ovid mention him,” the first man says, glancing across. “He was once a king. Punished by being made to push a boulder up to the top of a mountain, but whenever he reached the top he found that he was back at the bottom again. He had to carry on that way for all eternity.”  
Ah, of course. It’s familiar to him, now that he’s heard it. He knows all about the Greeks and the Romans, of course, from their time at Wittenberg with the prince, and...  
He pauses, pushing hair out of his eyes. There is no wind to speak of, but his hair gets in the way regardless, always.  
“What did he ever do to earn a punishment like that?”  
“Oh, all manner of things. Wicked things- murder and seduction. He took his brother’s throne, apparently, and he tied up Death with his own chains-”  
“He killed his own brother to become king?”  
“Yes, that’s how it goes.”  
“That’s not us. We never did anything like that.”  
“...No.”  
“I’ll tell a story now. If you like.”  
“Alright.”  
“Echo-”  
“I already know ‘Echo and Narcissus,”  
“Already know ‘Echo and Narcissus’?”  
“A chatterbox, who will only repeat the last words their beloved has spoken.”  
“Do I?”  
The blond pretends he isn’t amused but the brunette knows better. He’s seen the wry smile and the breath of laughter before they are hastily erased, leaving the face blank again. He isn’t sure of what to say next though, so he just sits quietly in his saddle, pleased.  
It’s bold of him, to be so sentimental, but there are no other people around to listen in on him happily making a fool of himself.  
Slowly, awkwardness descends upon them. It might have been that the creeping chill was stiffening up their perception as well as their limbs, one of them thinks. It wasn’t wrong to say it out loud, was it? Beside him, the other man looks away; pretends he has to concentrate on riding the stolen horse, as if he hasn’t been riding since childhood, as if the path in front of them doesn’t stretch out for as far as they can see, and due to the mist, even further that that.  
The sound of hooves beating the frozen ground eventually becomes too much to bear; a dirge, the grinding of gears in some great machine, heavy and deafening like a heartbeat in one’s ears. All is sounds of horses tamping down the moss and heather, breathing softly, freezing, sighing. Riding through the bracken slowly, watching leaves in shadow blacken, stomaching smells of the sweetening mulch in the undergrowth, dizzying. Foliage rustling- animals frantically hide in the leaves by the roadside- the sound is near deafening, desperate, lunatic, hungrily turning their thoughts into sounds and filling their heads with an alien whispering until one of them produces a cough, and the noise turns back into something that they know.  
He keeps his eyes forward as the other man turns to look at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the swathe of fog hanging in the road ahead like a curtain. He knows that if he wets his lips before he speaks the bitter cold will dry them out, and he will be sorry, but he can’t help but do it anyway.  
“Everybody turns into a flower, don’t they? More or less? That's some comfort.”  
The Greeks, he means.  
“Actaeon turns into a deer.”  
“Oh, but he had it coming. For peeping,” says the brunette, and then, tentatively, so as not to lose the thought mid-speech, “’A lovely boy in Dian’s shape... One like Actaeon, peeping through the grove...’”  
Briefly, light falls through the trees, hitting the leaves, and the men catch a glimpse of something like colours- pale green, ochre, gold, rust; the suggestion of Autumn.  
“’...and seem to die.’”  
“What?”  
“Marlowe.”  
“Who?”  
“What?”  
The blonde shakes his head. “Never mind.” As he sighs, the other man watches his breath hang in the air, and then fall back behind them.

****

Two men, both alike in dignity,  
On stolen horses, amble through the woods.  
They ponder, weak and weary, cold and lost,  
then chance upon a clearing void of trees-  
a stage a mile across or more in each  
direction. Flowers fill the field and move  
with cheer, and shadowed black are trees that edge  
it, waiting, hanging in the wings. Soft  
the pansies wilt and creeping fennel shakes.  
A daisy carpet shrouds the dirt and mud;  
It covers decomposing leaves and hides  
The crawling insects. Violets too in subtle spots,  
and dotted here and there are smatters pale  
of stoic brother’s blooms- the mocking cheer  
of bluefaced columbine plays welcome host.  
Then, turning in the saddle, Columbina speaks:  
“I sometimes think of flowers, and I think  
Of lying down to sleep (perchance to dream),  
to sleep with throats choked both with pretty weeds.”  
The other’s somewhat angered by the words:  
“Why talk like that? What use is weak resolve?  
We mustn’t deign to place ourselves with those  
who, mourning something, choose a feminine ending.”  
A wind tears through the clearing, punctuates  
The sentiment, sending ratty leaves  
and petals running towards the horses,  
who, spooked, turn their tails and canter back  
the way they came. The horses stumble, men  
are laughing, shaken, softly reeling. Barking  
at the trees, on their stolen horses, two  
men, both alike in dignity, continue  
ambling through the woods.

****

Rosencrantz is happy to see a building, even if it is a cheap little tumbledown inn. It’s grey and sad, it seems exhausted, and it looks like the shutters are ready to drop off their hinges. The bricks are ancient, the mortar that holds them together is crumbling. Regardless, he’s happy to see it. He’s bordering on tearful, however, at the prospect of sleeping in a bed.  
The horses watch passively, tied to a tree, as the two men knock at the door- carefully at first and then with a degree of impatience. When Rosencrantz wanders off and finds a window to peer into, he sees that there is nobody around inside. When they nudge the door experimentally they find it unlocked, and walk in quietly.  
The place isn’t unoccupied, but there’s nobody about. Candles are lit- inches of them sit in holders on tables and by the stairs.  
Guildenstern crosses the threshold and his boots make the ancient wooden boards creak jarringly. Rosencrantz toes the line and then stretches a leg over, choosing to land his foot straight on the tattered rug instead.  
There's a back room, which Guildenstern gives a half hearted once-over- he doesn’t expect to find anyone when he sticks his head through the door, and isn’t disappointed when he sees there is nobody there. It doesn’t come as a surprise. He turns to see a pair of coins beside a candle on one of the tables, and then sees the shadow of Rosencrantz hovering on the stairs.  
“Come on,” it says, and Guildenstern follows.  
There are two single beds in the little room on the second floor, but there may as well only have been one. Rosencrantz bars the shutters on the window, and the two of them collapse on the bed closest, kicking off boots, knocking off hats. They are silent, and tired, and don’t bother to pull back the sheets or rearrange themselves; they lay piled on top of one another.  
A glimpse of the peach moon through a gap in the shutters inspires Rosencrantz. He leans over Guildenstern to kiss his adams apple, his temple, the soft stretch of skin between his ear and his jaw. Fingers stroke his cool collarbone and the dip in his throat.  
When Guildenstern sighs he pulls away, worried, but a hand on the back of his head reassures him. Rosencrantz hovers over him there, indecisive, for just a second or two before pressing his lips to Guildenstern’s. His heart swells in his throat as fingers wind tightly into his hair.  
Should it feel this familiar? Rosencrantz isn’t sure, and that’s not new to him. All-encompassing uncertainty is a thing that Rosencrantz lives with every day, and he does his best to work around it because some things can’t be helped. He isn’t sure how he’ll sleep, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stave off the pressing anxiety that looms over him always. He isn’t sure what Guildenstern’s intentions towards him are, and he isn’t sure of what his intentions are towards Guildenstern, but he knows that Guildenstern’s dirty blonde hair is gold like a coin, or a candlestick, or a compass.  
His eyes are nothing like the sun, coral is far more red than his lips red, if snow be white, why then, his breast is dun, but the sum of all his parts is a gilded star.  
Exhausted, they drift off comfortably, mid-embrace, sinking into dusty sheets and the heavy scents of each other in the leather of their clothes. They don’t dream.

****

It seems as though they have slept for just minutes before they’re awoken.  
The brunette stirs first, and becomes aware of a familiar cold, creeping feeling of unease threatening him from somewhere amongst the shadows. Then, a sluggish resignation.  
“Guildenstern! Rosencrantz!”  
There is a terrible banging on the shutters. Whoever it is that wants them so badly must be standing on their saddle to reach the window.  
“Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!”  
Who’s the man laying beside him, he wonders?


End file.
